Passing the pavilion beneath the walls where the musicians were playing, he slowed to watch. Half a dozen men played instruments roughly similar to ones he knew, but these were rounder and taller and had more strings or more pipes than he was accustomed to. Their songs were sinuous and rhythmic, filled with serpentine melodies that reminded him of the wind’s song out on the plain. He found himself rooted to the spot and didn’t even notice the young woman in light-blue silk pants until she planted her feet boldly, with arms crossed, right in front of his horse. The horse blew out its breath and stopped short, then shook out its mane in irritation.
Having caught Gansukh’s attention, the girl now rushed a few steps to stand before him, brought her hands together above her head, bent her arms akimbo, and began to move her hips to the music. The belt around her waist was fitted with silver bells, and Gansukh noted with pleasure that they were the sort of bells he had heard earlier. The musicians, in response to the flick of her hips, quickened the tempo, and she responded in kind, flexing her body and twirling around Gansukh in a flurry of colored silk.
Someone pushed a stool into the back of Gansukh’s legs, and he sat down heavily as the crowd around him started to clap in time with the music. The horse chuffed and nickered, its eyes wide, and Gansukh touched its flank with his hand so that it would not kick out and injure someone.
The woman produced a red silk scarf and draped it over Gansukh’s left shoulder. Slowly she pulled it back and forth around his neck. She brought her face close to his and drew a long fingernail under his chin. Her eyes were hazel green and lined with a color that matched her blue outfit. She gave him an exaggerated wink and, as Gansukh laughed, raised the red scarf above her head and pulled it tight between both hands. Matching the beat of the music and the crowd, she tilted her hips up and down, left and right, making the silver bells at her waist dance and ring. Gansukh couldn’t take his eyes off the woman’s slender waist. She smiled knowingly and crooked a finger at him, beckoning him to stand and follow her. Glancing over her shoulder to see that he was still watching her, she began to move toward a small maroon tent set up behind the band.
Gansukh grinned and stood up—and found his way blocked.
“Persian culture is fascinating, isn’t it?” Lian’s hands were on her hips. Gansukh’s grin faltered.
“I…”
“You?”
“She…”
“She what?”
Gansukh looked over Lian’s head. The woman in blue was standing at the door to the maroon tent. She gave Gansukh a pouty look, pushing out her lower lip, and pulled the tent flap open wide.
“She…has bells.”
Lian gave him a withering look. She has bells?
With a snap, Gansukh broke eye contact with the dancer. “Bells…which would look better on you.” His grin returned.
“Oh, by the heavens.” Lian rolled her eyes. “I leave you alone for—”
“I was hungry,” Gansukh said, trying to change the subject. Remembering the sticks of meat, he offered her one.
“I can see that.” Still the same cold tone.
“I thought you—”
“I did,” she snapped.
Gansukh realized she was holding a broad piece of cloth, and when he stared at it uncomprehendingly, she exhaled noisily and hurled it at his feet before storming off into the crowd.
More confused than ever, he looked at the cup and the sticks of meat in his hands, and finally put the meat in the cup so that he could bend down and pick up the cloth.
It was a silk robe, as blue as the summer sky. An intricate pattern of interwoven tree branches, done in red and gold thread, ran down the front. Small birds nested in the tips, and hidden deep within the snarled bramble, he saw the lean faces of wolves.
It was the most beautiful article of clothing he had ever seen.
After a night of restless sleep, Gansukh was no closer to understanding any of the puzzles that continued to vex him. He was no closer to comprehending the Khagan’s depression and madness, nor how to reach the man who was lost in an alcoholic stupor. Lian was angry with him, and while he knew he shouldn’t care what a Chinese slave thought, his brain was constantly churning with confusion and frustration about her.
Not to mention the lacquered box. There had to be a way to open it, and while he could simply crush it with the pommel of his sword, such a solution could destroy what lay inside. It remained a tantalizing mystery—a symbol of his inability to fathom the intricacies of a seemingly simple problem.
He had left the box in his chamber, tucked in the inner pocket of the robe Lian had bought him. Then he had left his room, trying to put both out of his mind. The robe hung behind a paper screen. Hiding all of his secrets.
As he wandered around the compound, Gansukh couldn’t shake Master Chucai’s parting words from the other day: You simply need permission, and not from me or the Khagan.
Who, then? And what sort of permission?